


Timber!

by Amarnur



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Autistic My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Nonverbal My Unit | Byleth, Pre-Canon, parenting, rated for Jeralt's pottymouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarnur/pseuds/Amarnur
Summary: When it comes to parenting, Jeralt has no idea what he’s doing.Well, maybe that’s a lie. Byleth is still alive, at the very least. She eats, she sleeps, and she spends her days wandering around and causing trouble in whatever temporary camp they’ve made that day. She’s fairly independent and insists on walking on her own when they travel. She’s deceptively strong for her size, too, and she hasn’t even grown past his hip yet. The other day she managed to gather a pile of firewood twice her height and at least five times her weight. Jeralt was and still is extremely impressed.But there are other times where he doesn’t have the faintest clue how he’s supposed to handle this wide-eyed, silent child of his. Times such as right now, at the foot of a wide oak standing a short distance away from their campsite, staring at his only living flesh and blood sitting a good thirty feet off of the ground.Jeralt falls out of a tree.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 149





	Timber!

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm currently writing a much, much longer fic centering around Jeralt and a young Byleth, but it was taking too long so I wrote this fluffy nonsense to tide me over. I picture Byleth being 4-5 years old here, so still plenty small enough to love climbing trees.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful little sister for listening to my ramblings and for beta reading, I love you so much <3

When it comes to parenting, Jeralt has no idea what he’s doing.

Well, maybe that’s a lie. Byleth is still alive, at the very least. She eats, she sleeps, and she spends her days wandering around and causing trouble in whatever temporary camp they’ve made that day. She’s fairly independent and insists on walking on her own when they travel. She’s deceptively strong for her size, too, and she hasn’t even grown past his hip yet. The other day she managed to gather a pile of firewood twice her height and at least five times her weight. Jeralt was and still is extremely impressed. 

But there are other times where he doesn’t have the faintest clue how he’s supposed to handle this wide-eyed, silent child of his. Times such as right now, at the foot of a wide oak standing a short distance away from their campsite, staring at his only living flesh and blood sitting a good thirty feet off of the ground. 

Jeralt stares at her. Byleth stares back at him. Or at least, her face seems to be pointing in his general direction. 

He has no idea how she even got up there. Granted, he’s been exceptionally busy over the past few weeks and so he hasn’t been keeping an eye on her all the time. He usually delegates babysitting duty to one of the junior mercenaries he trusts, and it usually goes fairly well. Keyword, usually. Today his dinner preparations had been interrupted by said junior mercenary rushing to inform him that Byleth had slipped away into the treeline. Cue the thirty-minute frantic wild goose chase until someone had finally spotted the flash of blue hair high above.

“Byleth,” he says, bobbing his head to get a better view of her. “Get outta the tree.”

Byleth does not appear to move. 

Huh. Jeralt tries again. “The boys are setting up dinner. Come eat.”

He can’t see her face very well, but she just seems to retreat back into the tree trunk. No move made to climb down. It leaves Jeralt somewhat flabbergasted, as Byleth is generally not the type of child to ignore directions. 

“C’mon, kiddo, get down from there,” Jeralt says, reaching up to lightly shake a low-hanging branch for emphasis. High up as Byleth is, it doesn’t really affect her. She has one foot propped against the main trunk of the tree and the other dangling down from the limb she’s sitting on. Her back is tucked into a fork where the branches meet, one hand grabbing a neighboring branch for stability. The kid looks relatively comfortable, honestly. If it were earlier in the day Jeralt might be content to just let her climb around until she’s had her fill. Maybe she’s trying for some sort of squirrel impression.

But at the moment, Jeralt would really rather she come down and eat. It’s getting close to sundown, meaning everyone should start settling in for the night. The sooner she climbs down, the sooner they can return to the temporary camp his mercenaries have set up, and the sooner he can settle in with a flask of whiskey and a clear conscience. It’s been a long few weeks, and he doesn’t appreciate the headache that’s been building behind his brows.

Is this some kind of new rebellious phase? Is Byleth reaching the point where she feels responsible enough to set her own hours for meals and sleep, and resentful of Jeralt trying to corral her schedule? But no, Byleth is usually a fairly laid-back kid, willing to go along with whatever pace Jeralt sets for them. She doesn’t seem to care one way or another. Plus, he’s pretty sure the rebellious phase doesn’t usually start until the kid is, like, at least chest-height.

Is there something really interesting up there that’s holding her attention? She doesn’t seem too transfixed by anything he can see. Is she trying to communicate something in her own creative way? Byleth is a very good listener and Jeralt suspects she’s even started to pick up reading, but she hasn’t yet seemed to get the hang of using her own words. Sometimes it’s like he’s solving an elaborate riddle whenever he tries to understand what she wants. But what could she be trying to say by refusing to climb down?

And then a horrifying thought hits him. 

“Byleth, you _can_ get down on your own, right?”

Finally Byleth seems to acknowledge him. She leans her head to peer over the sturdy limb she’s sitting on, scuffing the branch with her shoe to send some leaves fluttering down.

“No, kid, please don’t tell me you’re stuck.”

More blank staring. Goddess above.

“ _Please_ don’t tell me I need to climb up after you,” he says, almost begging. “I’m not a climbing kind of guy. You know this.”

Byleth shifts her weight on the branch and turns her body to face him fully. Her hands clench harder on the branches closest to her. She blinks her wide eyes slowly. Maybe his own eyes are playing tricks on him, but Jeralt swears he sees his daughter’s lip _trembling_. And this must awaken some overprotective parental instinct in him, because he just can’t find it in himself to say no to that face. Goddammit. 

“You’re killing me here, By,” he says, resigned to his fate.

Now, Jeralt is many things. A fearsome fighter, a skilled rider, and a damn good mercenary captain among them. The years of battle and travel have kept his body well-trained and he is no slouch in physical prowess. But this also means that, well, he’s _big_. He’s tall, bulky, and wide-shouldered, muscles built for power rather than dexterity. His strategy is generally to bash in his opponent’s face before they have time to whittle him down with flashy footwork. As such, he is definitely _not_ made for tree-climbing. He’s not even sure that the branches separating him and Byleth would support his weight. 

But let it never be said that Jeralt the Blade Breaker is a quitter. He only hopes that none of the nearby mercenaries have wandered over to witness him flailing around in a tree like an idiot.

“...Sit tight, kid, I’m coming.” Jeralt looks up, surveying the lowest boughs. Alright, how is he going to do this?

He has enough height to grab the first one above his head (how the hell did Byleth do it, none of these branches would be low enough for her to reach), and he uses the leverage to plant his boots up the side of the trunk until he can swing his leg over the branch. He narrowly avoids flipping completely upside down during the process. Ugh, he hates this already. 

He hauls himself up to a low crouch on this branch, taking care not to lose his balance. Once he rights himself, he finds a foothold in a sturdy crook of branches and boosts himself up. He reaches up and grabs a new branch in each hand. If he holds the branches here, he can shift his weight on the foothold like so, and then balance as he quickly brings his other foot up… 

He progresses slowly like that, staying close to the trunk and aiming for the sturdiest branches he can see. More than once he loses his footing on a narrow limb, leading to copious swearing and floundering before he’s able to establish another foothold nearby. Unfortunately, once he’s about fifteen feet up none of the branches seem too happy to take his weight anymore; even the thicker ones begin groaning and creaking threateningly as the trunk of the tree begins to narrow out. Still, he persists. Sometimes it takes spreading his weight along several branches as he kneels. Sometimes he’s able to find more leverage in the gnarled tree bark. He’s honestly gaining more height than he would have expected.

Byleth is much closer now. Jeralt can clearly see her legs up above, her blue hair swishing freely as she folds her body over the branch to watch him. Her expression looks much looser now, not nearly as distressed. In fact, the rise of her brows and tilt to the corner of her mouth look almost like...amusement?

“I’m glad my suffering is so funny to y—ARGH!” Jeralt yelps as the next branch snaps under his fingers, staggering as he tries to find another handhold. He steadies himself and takes a deep breath. It’s fine, this is _fine_ , he’s gotten this far. He can definitely scale the last few feet separating him and Byleth, and get them both to the ground safely.

Byleth had better be appreciating the effort he’s going to for her sake. Jeralt is extremely busy, he’ll have you know, and there is nothing he would rather be doing _less_ than climbing a tree. He carefully ascends the last few feet, sighing with relief as his daughter finally comes into arm’s reach. He almost has her— 

—And then, right when he’s about to reach up and grab her, his darling daughter ducks under his grasp and slips off of her perch. She seems to know exactly where to reach, the right way to balance, the safest way to get to the ground. Like a goddamn _squirrel_. She fluidly slides down from branch to branch, easily finding hand and footholds until she finally lands on the leaf-strewn forest floor.

Which leaves Jeralt staring in shock, hand outstretched, jaw hanging open, with the keen knowledge that his own daughter has made him out to be a fool.

The branches under him are groaning, complaining about how long they’ve been supporting his weight, but he can’t find the energy to begin the process of climbing back down. He whips his head around and directs the sternest glare he can muster at Byleth watching him from down below. 

“You little _shit_ ,” he growls. _She set him up_!

A threatening crack. Jeralt has just enough time to rethink all of his life choices before the branches splinter completely and he drops like a rock.

  


* * *

  


Fifteen minutes, several broken branches, and far too many bruises later, Jeralt gingerly sits down on a fallen log with a bowl of stew. Byleth settles next to him, munching away. There are still twigs and leaves in her hair from their rather eventful afternoon. He’s trying not to think about how much of a disaster his own hair must be.

“Care to tell me what all that was about?” Jeralt asks. 

He’s not expecting an answer and he doesn’t get one. Instead, Byleth kicks her legs against the log happily, making pleased noises as she eats.

“Well, I’m glad at least one of us had fun,” he grumbles. Ugh, he’s going to be so sore the next morning. He’s _really_ not looking forward to riding his horse tomorrow as the mercenary group sets out for their next destination. Maybe he’ll have everyone delay their departure...no, but then they’d have to make an early supply run on the way to the next town, pushing their arrival back by a good half day. That would then lead to a real crunch to get all the work done without needing to pay the inn for another night’s lodging, unless they negotiated with the innkeeper for a trade-off for some odd jobs or something. But no, if he’s remembering right that particular inn is known to be very fussy about payment, and they’re usually overbooked besides, so that could lead to having to camp outside of town for a little while, and he just _knows_ that all of the boys will be pissing and moaning nonstop after several weeks without a proper bed, and that kind of blow to company morale would lead to a greater risk— 

His grumpy train of thought is interrupted by Byleth’s head falling against his side. Huh, that’s rather unusual. It’s not like she’s more tired than usual, so she shouldn’t be falling asleep against him already. After a moment, Jeralt decides to leave her be and continue eating.

She’s still huddled up against him ten minutes later.

“...What’s gotten into you, By? You’re usually not nearly this touchy-feely.”

Byleth turns up her face, staring into Jeralt’s eyes. There’s something in her gaze that looks almost...forlorn. She slips her hand into the crook of Jeralt’s elbow and clutches it tightly. Doesn’t give it back when he attempts to return to his dinner.

“Aw, are you trying to tell me that you missed me?” He tries to push down his guilt, but it’s hard when he remembers how he’s been neglecting her recently. “Can’t bear to not have all of my attention, huh?”

Byleth fully clambers into his lap at that, shoving her bowl of stew to the side as Jeralt desperately tries not to spill his own. She looks up at him with her brows drawn and her lips pursed, as close to a pout as he’s even seen her make. When has she ever bothered showing her displeasure so clearly?

Again, Jeralt just can’t refuse her anything when she makes that face. “Alright, alright, you win. I’ll take a break from work tomorrow. Take you fishing or something,” he concedes.

And Byleth doesn’t smile, but something in her expression unfurls and softens in a way he rarely sees. Her eyes widen, her brows loosen. She is utterly _radiant_ , and Jeralt is absolutely taken by the way she relaxes into his chest, her hands clutching gently at his shirt. Goddamn if it isn’t the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

It seems that she was indeed trying to tell him something with that stunt.

When they return to their tent after dinner, Jeralt lays out the bedrolls like usual as he waits for his daughter to freshen up and change into her nightclothes. He sheds his own cloak and belts. Byleth soon comes up next to him, apparently unsatisfied, and she shuffles around until she can push Jeralt’s bedroll flush against the side of the tent. She pushes her own bedding as close to Jeralt’s as it can get. Without a glance back at him, Byleth dives in and rolls herself up like a caterpillar, then curls into a ball. 

Smack-dab in the middle of Jeralt’s bedroll.

Jeralt sighs heavily and lays down, strategically arranging himself around the blanket lump. He ends up scrunched into barely half of the bedroll’s space, with Byleth sprawled out sideways, her limbs folding over his chest. 

She blinks up at him sleepily, and he just can’t resist the urge to lean forward and kiss the top of her head.

“You’ll be the death of me, kid,” Jeralt whispers.

Good thing he loves her so much.


End file.
